Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How
by twirltheflag
Summary: Chelsea has amnesia.She knows nothing about herself. She only knows her name and age... and they may be a lie. Now, she has one hope to regain her past; Sherlock Holmes. Starts between "Blind Banker" and "Great Game". MAY be Sherlock/OC if I feel like it.
1. Chapter 1

Info and Part 1

Name: Chelsea Cavendish, according to the label on her coat

Age: 18-years-old, according to the label on her coat

Height: 5'9"

Looks: Shoulder-length, dirty blond hair with chin length bangs. Grey eyes. Pale skin. Plump lips, curvy figure

Personality: Somber, anti-social, haunted, and easily afraid. Basically, she is lost.

Background: You'll notice in other parts of the bio, the facts are "according to the label on her coat". This is because she is an amnesiac. She was found some where out in the English country side, unconscious, and was, immediately, check into a hospital. She can remember nothing of who she was. All she really knows about herself, besides her name, age and appearance, is that she is and American and a Northern Dweller, based off of her accent. Even one has searched for records of a "Chelsea Cavendish" but nothing has been found. The only other thing that Chelsea can draw from her past is a nightmare that keeps recurring. We'll get to that in the story…

And now we begin…

…

Darkness.

Impenetrable darkness.

It was happening again.

I knew what was coming next.

Echoing footfalls.

And Laughing.

Not a good laugh. Not like a baby's first laugh. Not like a laugh you would share with your friends and family.

This was laugh to send shivers down your spine.

And kept getting louder.

And crazier.

It was hurting my head.

Flash. His laughing face was there for a brief second.

Again. His evil, stubled grin burned my brain.

One more time. His eyes digging deep into my soul and tearing me limb from limb.

I screamed.

I shot up.

I was back in my room. The room of my pitiful, dark, lonely, depressing apartment. Or flat, as I've heard for the last month or so.

I was drench. Covered in my own liquid of panic and stress.

I flopped back onto my bed, flinging my arm over my eyes to shield the from the 11 a.m. sun. That sun always hurt after that nightmare. It did nothing for my headache.

'Another day.'

…

It was my forth meeting with my therapist.

I started seeing him at the beginning of the month, when I was found.

I hated the meetings. They were pointless. Nothing ever helped. All the meetings were a waste of time. It took all my strength not to scream and yell and run out of the office like a lunatic.

"Have you remembered anything, Chelsea?"

I shook my head, stiffly.

"Are you still having that dream? The dream of the man who frightens you?"

I nodded, even more stiffly.

"Have there been any other dreams?"

I shook my head again.

He sighed, clearly unhappy with my continuing lack of progress, cooperation and repressiveness.

"Well, now we have to start treatment. The first step is Psychoanalysis. I'm going to put you in touch with-"

"I don't want another therapist."

He looked at me surprised; that was the first time I had said more than two words to him. All other communication between us was with written notes when the question needed more than a nod or shake of the head.

"I don't want another therapist." This one was robbing me and annoying me enough as it was.

"He's not a therapist. I'm sending you to him because his profession can help with the psychoanalysis… Do you know what psychoanalysis means?"

"You're the expert." It was only with him that I got that kind of attitude.

He ignored my mouth and explained. "Psychoanalysis is when you use dream analysis and interpretation techniques to recall memories."

"We've already tried to analyze my dream and you said there wasn't enough to go on to draw a conclusion."

"You're right. However, we have not tried putting you in dangerous situations to see if the overwhelming emotions force you to recall anything. That's were this contact can help."

"You're putting me in the care of a dangerous man?"

"I'm putting you in the care of a great man who lives a dangerous life with a dangerous career. Plus, he may not have to put you in danger to tell you who you are."

I was, clearly, confused but my therapist said that he wanted me to meet the man for myself instead of describing him to me.

It was worth a shot.

…

221B Baker Street.

I knocked on the door and was greeted by a little old lady. I told her I was looking for Sherlock Holmes and she, immediately, smile and let me in.

She lead my up the stairs to the top floor apartment.

That was strange.

The door was wide open.

Not exactly safe. But then again, I wasn't there to meet a man who never left his apartment.

The lady knocked on the open door, telling "Sherlock" that I had a visitor. She seemed to suggest that, since I was a young lady, I was the date of this stranger.

I slowly walked into the apartment, getting a look at my surroundings.

Boxes were scattered. Books and magazines flung about the place if they didn't fit in the books shelf or the laundry hamper by the window. A skull over the fire place. Random, unconnected items scattered abound the room. Who ever this man was, he didn't care much for keeping a tidy house.

Two men were in the room. One sat in a black leather chair in a blue under shirt, pajama pants, slippers and a robe. A violin was cradled in his arms and he was plucking away at the strings, not even bothering to look up at me. All I could really see of him was his black curly hair. . The other one came from, what I assumed was the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee and looking at me, curiously. He was tan, short and had cropped hair.

At that point, the elderly lady decided to leave us alone to talk.

I felt awkward in this room with two strangers, not knowing which one I had to ask for help.

"Um… Sherlock…"

The man sipping the tea inclined his head towards the man with the violin, signaling that that was the man I was looking for.

I stepped farther into the room, trying to gain the man's attention before continuing to speak.

"Um… hi…" Didn't even look up. "Um… I know this is weird but… uh…" No response. "Chelsea. My names Chelsea. Cavendish."

"No it's not."

"I'm sorry."

Finally, Sherlock Holmes looked up at me and showed me his blue eyes and angular face as he said, "Your name is not 'Chelsea Cavendish'. Cavendish is a purely British name and, obviously from your accent, you're from the North Part of America, most likely North Dakota, which is an area that was mainly populated by Scandinavians, Norwegians mostly. Also, your blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin also suggest Norwegian heritage. So your name should be of Norwegian origins with Americanized changes.

I was silenced, briefly, silenced but then started to ask, "How did you-"

He cut me off before I could finish. "How did I know that you weren't telling us your real name? How did I know that your heritage was Scandinavian and completely lack any English lineage, there for you couldn't possibly have an English name? The same way that I know that you're only 18-years old, you dropped out of school at the age of 10 right after you were orphaned, you've been working for somebody as computer programmer, and your favorite past time is shooting off rifles at a practice range."

That time, I didn't recover from my shocked silence so easily. We had never spoken about anything and yet, he already knew things that I still didn't know. How could he know after a minute of seeing me for the first time?

The only thing that knocked me out of my shock was him asking me, "Well? Did I get anything wrong?"

"… I… I don't know…"

Both the men were confused, obviously.

"My therapist… John Sutherland sent me…"

Finally, he understood. "You're an amnesiac."


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

One minute, this Sherlock Holmes was just starting to understand that I was an amnesiac. The next thing I knew, I was pulled along and shoved into a taxi with Mr. Holmes. His friend, John Watson, was forced to take another cab.

"Where are we going?"

"Scotland yard."

"The police can't help me. There are no records here or in America."

"That's not why we're going to them."

"Then why are we going?"

"To prove that I'm right."

"Right about what?"

"About your dropping out of school at age ten. About you being a computer programmer. And about you knowing how to use a gun."

I looked at him, perturbed.

"Is that all you care about?" He looked at me, quizzically. "Being right? Forget the fact that I don't remember my past. It all just about-"

He rolled is eyes before he interrupted me. "I do enjoy being right; who doesn't? And in order for me to find anything more about you, I need to make sure that I _am_ right, at least, on the basics. Which would you rather have? Not knowing your past for a little while longer so that I can piece it together correctly or having me slap together a half-assed past in one night which could be right but could also be wrong?"

I had to admit, he had a point that I just couldn't criticize. I sat back in my taxi seat, scowling.

We sat in silence for a few moments before I asked, "Assuming you _are_ right, how did you know all of that stuff?"

"I didn't know. I saw."

"Meaning?"

He gave me a look that I couldn't described before he started ranting. "Like I said, your name should be reflected in your accent and your lineage. Your age is found in you looks. You dropped of school when you were 10; if you were still in school, you would be an exchange student here but you don't dress like an exchange student, act like an exchange student, or have the numerous books of an exchange student, so it's clear that you dropped out. I know that you're an orphan because you don't dress like you have a care giver such as parent or a guardian. No parent would let their child go out in this cold without the proper dress, even if their child was an adult and on a different continent, so orphan it is. I know that you're a computer programmer because your fingers are long, slender and seem very nimble like you have worked them in elaborate patterns. You only see two kinds of people with these fingers; people who have done a lot of work on computers and people who have done a lot of knitting. You're too young to be a knitter so computer programmer it is. I also know that you have spent a lot of time at a shooting range because, while all of your fingers are nimble, you treat your right forefinger with care like you're at the ready to pull the trigger. Plus, you hyper focus on peoples face when you're talking to them, like you're aiming a gun at them. Clearly, a marksman. That would also display that you're an orphan. After all, what parent would let their child anywhere near a real gun? None, unless of course the children were in the armed forces which you are, clearly, not. Also, you have the skills of a marksmen who has been in the business almost a decade, showed in your upper biceps that have been enlarged from holding a rifle, which would coincide with when you dropped out of school. What school girl would know how to use rifle? None."

He's the one who asked the questions after that. Basic ACT questions.

…

We rushed into a Scotland Yard office. A woman with black, curly hair tried to stop us, but Sherlock brushed right past and entered in anyways. A man with graying hair was at the desk and looked surprised to see us.

"We didn't call you in. We don't need your help on a case."

"No, but you could help us with one."

With that, Sherlock stepped aside to show me to the man, who was immediately confused. Still he stepped forward and stuck his hand out, introducing himself as DI Lastrade.

When I tried to introduce myself, Sherlock filled in the blank. "She doesn't know her name. She has amnesia. She has a name written on the back of coat but it's not her real name."

"How do you know?"

"Doesn't fit with her family lineage."

"What do you want me to do about it? I work murder cases, not missing persons."

"Even if you did work on missing persons, there are no files on her anywhere. So, we have to start from scratch. I've made a few assumptions about her life style before she lost her memory and we need to test them and you have the equipment that we need to use."

"Alright, where do we start?"

"We've already recorded her intelligence level… if you can call it that."

Yeah, I sucked balls at the ACT questions.

"Thanks. Makes me feel good."

"What does her intelligence have to do with this?

"I gathered that, from the looks of her, she hasn't had proper schooling since she was 10-years-old. The fact that she was so stupid that she could answer basic ACT questions shows me that I'm right."

"I'm right here. You might want to try to be kind."

"No time for niceties. Time for test number two."

Sherlock stepped toward me as he untied his scarf. He began to lower the scarf over my eyes when I took hold of his wrists – right where the joint is– and I started fighting against him like my life depended on it, twisting away from the scarf.

I was out of my senses. I didn't even realize what I was doing until Sherlock yelled. Then, I froze. I was breathing heavily, like there was something I was afraid of. Oh god, what was wrong with me?

When my grip didn't loosen on his wrists, Sherlock started speaking to me in a slow, calm voice, "This is only a test. No one is going to hurt you. You have to trust me."

I gulped down my unexplained fear and nodded.

He, gently and slowly, tied the scarf over my eyes. He asked if it was too tight and I shook my head. The he linked his arm with mine and led me somewhere. We entered a room and he put one of my hands on a chair and the other hand on a table. Then, told me to sit down.

I did as he said. I heard something being set on the table in front of me.

"Do you have a cell phone?"

I shook my head.

He must have fished his out and put it on the table. Then, he said, "I'm going to take of the scarf but DON'T open your eyes just yet."

I nodded, signaling that I understood. My blindfold was removed but I kept my eyes closed.

"I'm going to leave you alone now. When the phone on the table rings, open your eyes and just do what feels natural. Until then, I want you to take deep breathes and concentrate."

I nodded again and, with that, he left.

I breathed as he said.

And then the phone rang.

I opened my eyes.

A laptop was in front of me.

Suddenly, my hands took charged.

I started clicking and typing like a mad person. My fingers flew across the keyboard in elaborate patterns. My eyes scanned the screen, unconsciously making sure that I was typing the right things. It was like I was in a trance that nothing, not even the alarm, could get me out of.

I didn't realize what I had done until everyone came bursting in. John pulled me out of the chair and away from the computer, snapping me back to reality. I looked at my hands in disbelief, not knowing what I had done or how I had done it.

All the while, Sherlock and Lastrade were looking at the laptop screen, their faces full of shock.

Lastrade finally let me know what I had done. "She just tore down Scotland Yard's firewall. If we had been any later she would have been able to do anything; change criminal files, delete evidence lists…"

Sherlock looked at me, surprised but slightly amused. "You're not a programmer at all. You're a hacker."

…

"Sir, she just hacked into our network! Who knows what damage she could've done?"

"Oi! Calm down, Donvan!"

"She should be arrested!"

That's when Sherlock came to my defense, much to my surprise. "What she just did, she did so unconsciously; it was not her intent. She may have been a hacker before she lost her memory but that was then and this is now. Now, she is just girl trying to figure out what happened to her and, if you had been paying attention, she is scared by what she has just done."

He was right; I was scared of my hacking abilities. What had I done? Where did I learn how to do that? How many times had I hacked? What had I hacked? The possibilities frightened me.

"Sir-"

"Back to your desk! Now, Donovan!"

She didn't like that no one was listening to her, but she stomped off without another word.

John can back into Lastrade's office and hand me a cup of water. I mumbled my thanks and I sipped the liquid down.

Lastrade asked, "What now?"

"Rifle test."

John gave Sherlock a criticizing look and said, "Give her some time. She's just had a shock. Putting a gun in her hands is not a good idea right now."

"What else do you suggest? Giving up?"

"No but can't it wait?"

"No, John, it can't!"

"Would you two stop it? You're not helping her!"

With that, the roommates stopped quarreling and Lastrade took over. "This is your past, your memory, so what we do next and when we do it is up to you. We won't force you."

Sherlock tried to argue but a look for John and Lastrade shut him up… for now…

I took a deep breathe before gulping down the rest of my water and saying, "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?"

I wasn't, but I nodded anyways.

…

Once again, I was blindfolded and taken to a part of the station.

I had to stand (no chair this time) and something very heavy was put in front of me and opened.

Once again, Sherlock took my blind fold off but I had to keep my eyes closed until the phone on the counter rang.

Finally it did.

In front of me was an open case that held all the parts of a L96A1 sniper rifle.

Once again, my hands took control.

In less than 30 seconds, I had assembled the gun flawlessly and was aiming it at a target in the shooting range.

Three trigger pulls.

Three perfect head shots.

Then, I was back in my right mind and it was my reaction to my hacking all over again. The gun fell from my hands and would've hit the floor if John hadn't caught. I stared at my hands in even greater fear.

"You didn't just shoot guns off for a hobby."

I whipped around and Sherlock was there with Lastrade

"It was a means of survival."


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

"Twice in one day!"

"Will you stop?"

We had finally finished working at Scotland Yard. We were all a bit hungry (well, Waston and I were hungry), so we stopped by a restaurant and picked up something to eat. Unfortunately, ever since we had made final confirmation of my rifle skills, Sherlock had been pouting about how he had gotten a few details wrong. It was nearly ruining my dinner.

"Twice!"

"So you got a few things wrong. The point it that we know the truth and she's one step closer to regaining her memory. Besides, being wrong confirms that you're human."

I tried to stifle my big laugh but I ended up inhaling my food. I started coughing, awkwardly. John gave me a couple of pats on the back, trying to help me. Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn't very happy that I had started laughing at his expense. He decided to leave rather than be laughed at.

Oh, well. At least John and I could finish our dinner in peace.

"How long have you been his roommate?"

"A little less than a month."

"And you're still sane?"

John gave out a laugh and said, "Yes, well. Sane enough to keep doing my job."

"Where do you work?"

"Well, technically, I work part time at a medical clinic."

"What do you mean 'technically'?"

"I mean that's the job that actually pays."

"And you have another part time job that doesn't pay?"

"Yeah… working with him." I knew he meant Sherlock.

"Oh, yeah. Speaking of him, what exactly does he do? Private detective?"

"'Consulting detective'. It's a job he made up. Any time the police are stumped on a case, they call him and ask him for help. You've seen first hand what he can do."

"Oh. So… I guess that makes you the 'Consulting Pathologist'?"

John gave a laugh at the title. "I prefer simply being call a doctor."

We both gave a little laugh a moment of silence fell.

"How did you meet him in the first place?"

He gave a laugh again. "It's a long story."

"I got time."

He sighed and said, "Alright. I just got back from Afghanistan about two months ago. I was living in a flat on my own, and I had a therapist who was trying to help my cope with my psychosomatic limp."

Confused, I looked under the table. John did walk like he had a limp. He didn't treat his foot gingerly. He didn't have a cane. I looked at him and he understood my unasked question.

"I'll got to that. It's part of the story. Anyway, I was talking to an old friend who told my that I should get a flatmate. When I asked him who would want to be flatmates with me, he said that he had been asked that same question earlier that day."

"Sherlock."

"Yes. We were introduced and he did the same to me that he did to you. Knew practically everything about me from one look."

"And you still moved in with him?"

Another laugh. "We were just going to look at the flat but he got called in by Lastrade that day. There had been a murder and he asked me to go with him to look at the body. After that… well, come complicated things happened and… here we are."

"I thought you said that the limp would be part of the story."

"Oh, right. Well, we sitting in a restaurant, trying to stake out the killer. A suspect got into a taxi and we started running after him. We had run a good few blocks there and back to the apartment before I had realized that I had left my cane at the restaurant we were eating at."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You mean…"

He nodded.

"Color me surprised."

"Don't worry. There's more stories where that came from."

…

"Shall I hail you taxi?"

We had just walked out of the restaurant and we were going our separate ways.

"No thanks, John. I'll think I'll walk home. I have a lot to think about."

"I'll walk with you then."

"That's okay, John. I'm alright. You go on home. I'm sure you've had a long day."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Good night."

"Good night."

With that, I turned away from John and started walking down the sidewalk.

I had gotten a good few blocks where I started noticing something. Phones were ringing off the hook. Every time I walked by a phone it rang. When someone else about to pick up, they'd stop ringing. What was going on?

It happened again, right as I was calling an empty telephone both. I stopped and stared for a moment. Then, I went inside and picked up the phone, but I didn't say a greeting. I just listened.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" I turned my head slowly to see the camera that the male voice was talking about. "Do you see it, Miss Cavendish?"

"… Yes."

"Watch."

Suddenly the camera started turning and pointed across the street. "There is another camera across the street. Do you see it?"

"… Mm."

"Finally, there is a camera at the top of the building on your right." Sure enough.

By then, I was shaken enough. I dropped the phone, letting it hang from it's cord and dangle. I ran out of the booth and sprinted down the sidewalk, weaving my way in and out of people. I came to an alley way and made a sharp turn down it. I worked my way through a maze of alley ways, try to loose or confuse whoever was watching me

I was coming to the end of an alley way when a large, black, shiny car pulled up, blocking my way out.

When I turned to run back to where I had come from, there was a large African American man in a trench coat behind me, point a gun at me.

I put my hands up and started backing away from the man towards the car.

"Get into the car, Miss Cavendish."

I didn't want to. I didn't want my nightmare man to find me.


End file.
